


murder is just another saying

by chifon



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Character Study, Idealization of Dying?, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Mild Gore, Murder, Post-Deposition, repeated major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:39:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28816482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chifon/pseuds/chifon
Summary: Mark doesn’t know what the healthiest coping mechanisms are, but he’s pretty sure that it isn’t imagining your former best friend killing you.
Relationships: Eduardo Saverin/Mark Zuckerberg
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	murder is just another saying

**Author's Note:**

> check end notes for warnings. i once again tried my best. 
> 
> i was kind of inspired by that one fic where mark and eduardo are blood brothers that i can't remember the name of.

The ghost of Eduardo Saverin is haunting Mark which doesn’t make any sense because first of all, ghosts don’t exist and second of all, Eduardo Saverin is still alive.

So when Eduardo had appeared in his bedroom one night after a three day coding tear, Mark thought it was just that: Eduardo. Mark didn’t remember passing out, but he must have because he was in bed, under the thick, heavy covers that shielded him from the incoming winter cold since he never remembered to turn on the heater in the apartment nor does he usually wear warm enough clothing. Never was good at taking care of himself after all.

And there was Eduardo, standing in the darkness in front of him. Mark’s sight was still hazy, but he knew the figure was Eduardo for some reason. Should’ve been the first thing to tip him off; however, Mark isn’t the highest functioning person when he wakes up unless it's to snap a quick scathing remark or to code. 

“Eduardo?” Mark said confused, throat hoarse from sleep, as he sat up. 

Eduardo was on him in seconds, straddling his torso, pinning him back onto the bed. That’s when Mark realized that there was no reason for Eduardo to be _here_ ; he still hates Mark, can’t even talk to him—hell, look at him—even though it’s been three months since the deposition. Mark’s seen him a couple times since the realm of business is much smaller than you’d expect it to be, but that’s all he’s been: a fleeting image of the past. 

This wasn’t Eduardo. Why was it though that it seemed like him? That the little peeks of moonlight that peered through the window highlighted all the lines of Eduardo exactly the way Mark remembered them to be: that familiar jaw and eyes and lips and nose that Mark’s memorized by the sheer amount of times he’s seen it. Those familiar cuffs of that suit jacket Eduardo had always worn, the fabric now scratching against the bare skin of Mark's collarbone, as if he were already a businessman instead of an eager college student. Those familiar hands that used to be this steady, almost comforting weight on Mark’s shoulder or back or arm, having now made their way up to wrap around Mark’s neck. 

Mark inhaled sharply as the hands tightened. Fear rushed into him—erasing the leftover sleepiness that still resided within him—as he gasped desperately for air under the unrelenting pressure around his throat. Mark thrashed vigorously against the arms and the body weight holding him down, hands clawing at the suit jacket in an attempt to get free. It's futile, although; Eduardo remained motionless, steady and Mark, in the face of that, felt helpless. 

A flash of moonlight came into the room again, brighter this time and in his oxygen deprived daze, Mark caught a glimpse of Eduardo's entire face: there was animosity twisted in it as expected, but not in any true rage. Instead, there was this hurt—maybe bitterness, maybe dejection, definitely heartache. And it felt like they were back in that meeting room, on opposite sides of the table, creating this impossibly large gap between them. 

Didn’t take long for Mark’s body to go limp under Eduardo’s hold, for him to come to the realization that this was it; this was where Mark Zuckerberg died.

Then, he woke up. 

As his eyes shot open, he took a deep gulp of air; his breathing was ragged and his heart was pounding and he wanted to vomit. He sat up, taking a couple of slow breaths to calm himself down, attempting not to have a full out panic attack or something because he didn’t want to go to the hospital and be asked a million different questions that were all based around ‘why?’. It was still dark out; time doesn’t seem to have even passed since he had left the office, but that’s really how it is with the night—time all feels the same when darkness covers up everything. After blinking a few times to clear away any haziness that might still be there, he scanned the room to find that nobody was there. Hadn’t ever been. 

This weird sense of relief washed over him then and when he stepped into the office that morning, he simply forgot it ever occurred.

That was until it happened again several days later. 

He was on the couch this time; he hadn’t even fallen asleep, just coding away on his laptop in the darkness. It was Sunday and he hasn’t been able to get any work done since Wednesday due to his family basically taking away his laptop for the Thanksgiving weekend which wasn’t fair because he’s a full grown adult who can do whatever he wants, especially now that he is CEO. Nonetheless, it was a three versus one situation and even he can’t beat those odds, so no laptop, no coding for three whole fucking days. Once he landed back in Palo Alto that afternoon, more importantly back in his house, he was on his laptop in a second, ignoring the rest of his luggage that he probably won’t ever unpack anyways. He quickly found where he’d stopped on his current project and continued on. 

He had only gotten up once it was completed to grab some Red Bull in the fridge, formulating what he was going to work on next. The silence and the darkness seemed to have swallowed his house whole; his bare feet barely made a sound against the wooden floors as he traveled to a destination that he couldn’t even see under the pitch blackness of the night.

Mark was almost there to the fridge—to the next safety of light—when this pain erupted in the back of his skull and he tumbled down onto the floor. It throbbed, casting this spell of dizziness over him, causing him to shake as he felt the blood running down his head. The bitter fear rushed through him as he mustered the energy to crawl away. 

Barely got two inches before he felt the impact against his legs, the sound of his bone shattering reverberated in his ears and he screamed. It hurt, everything hurt and it hurt to even move, but he did anyway. He had to see. So he used the last remaining strength he had in his arms to flip himself onto his back. 

And there he was: Eduardo. 

His form loomed over Mark, standing tall in that damn suit with that pained expression illuminated by the moonlight. Only difference was the metal bat held firmly in his hands. There wasn't any shock or surprise or doubt for that matter running inside of Mark, just the terrible fear that gnawed at him, afraid of what was going to come next because that’s a part of living: being afraid of what may happen. 

Eduardo raised the bat one last time high above his head and swung it downward. 

It’s that final burst of pain that released Mark back to reality: panting and sweaty and scared. 

The ghost of Eduardo Saverin is haunting Mark and he has no idea how to deal with that. 

— 

It’s not like Mark doesn’t know what it is: fairly vivid nightmares designed by his mind to simply fuck with him. He could say that they mean something, given into the Freudian bullshit, but he won’t because yeah, he doesn’t want to make excuses for a guy who made a whole theory based upon his want to fuck his mom. 

Even if it does mean something, then why would it be that? 

Mark knows that he definitely doesn’t want to die. He’s got Facebook after all and who’s going to take care of this seed that he’s nurtured with his own hands. He has to see it through, see what it’s going to become, and every move he’s made has been to protect the future of his creation. Because what would he be without it? 

Dreams don’t mean anything.

Mark wants to believe that. 

— 

For a couple days, he attempts to ignore whatever is going on with his head like he did earlier when he was completely unaware of it. 

It doesn’t happen every night after all—he doesn’t dream during those nights when he’s not being murdered, closing his eyes one moment and simply waking up the next—, so it’s easy enough to simply forget that it’s becoming a pattern by now. Well, it hasn’t yet because for there to be a pattern, it would have to occur three times. 

Anyways, he refuses for this to get the better of him. 

They’re just stupid nightmares, he can handle that on his own. Like he does everything. 

— 

Mark’s in the backseat of a car when he feels a cold metal pressed against his temple and hears a loud click of what’s probably a revolver being cocked. 

His breath hitches slightly as his body tenses, immediately noticing that Chris isn’t in the driver's seat anymore, seemingly vanishing into thin air; in fact, the wheel is completely stationary as if they’ve stopped completely, but they haven’t, he can feel them still moving. The view outside the window has been replaced; the freeway that was once packed to the brim with the usual California heavy traffic has been wiped away by this dull, yet encompassing white light. 

All that’s been left is this car, Mark, and, of course, Eduardo.

Careful not to move his head, Mark looks over to where he knows Eduardo is, sitting next to him with that same suit, the same expression, and the same intent. Mark’s going to die today, it’s only a matter of when. What will it take for Eduardo to pull the trigger this time? 

“Are you going to shoot me if I move my head?” Mark asks because he might as well test the limits of this nightmare since he’s here already. There’s a pause before Eduardo curtly shakes his head. So this Eduardo has the ability to understand him. Interesting. 

Slowly, Mark turns to Eduardo, feeling the metal travel along with him as it decides to settle at the center of his forehead. He tries not to let the fear get to him; this isn’t real after all. 

“Why are you doing this?” he asks; Eduardo’s expression mutates into this very different version of hurt, more into this furious disbelief, like he can’t believe that Mark hasn’t figured it out by now and there’s tears welling up in the corners of his eyes: not in the striking anger from being betrayed or the bitterness of the betrayal, but in the lasting aftereffects of having been betrayed. The vulnerabilities that it creates and having to deal with those vulnerabilities forever as you continuously scrutinize every decision you have made that brought you to your downfall; how it was, in the end, somewhat your own fault. Then, realizing that you’re the only one who’s been obsessing over it, realizing that it’s only been eating _you_ up.

Mark decides that he doesn’t want to see that expression again.

—

The best way to avoid an event is to completely eliminate the possibility for it to happen.

So Mark stops sleeping. 

It works; he doesn’t have any dreams about Eduardo and his fun surprises anymore. However, what Mark didn’t realize is that there’s too many hours in the day and not enough to do with Facebook. They’ve already kicked off the ground, creating a rather stable system, so there isn’t any need to be at the offices twenty-four seven to rush to a seemingly impossible deadline. 

So he spends many hours of the day thinking in his office, never at home, mostly about next projects that aren’t technically necessary, but interesting enough to tackle. The more time he spends awake, although, the less ideas sprout into his head. Those empty spaces end up being filled by things he doesn’t want to think about: the past. 

He thinks about the meeting rooms, the Palo Alto House, the dorm room more often than he likes to; all of them holding the different faces of Eduardo Saverin. Many of those recollections are of the little things that he took for granted back then in that awful sized suite: Eduardo laid out behind him on Mark’s bed, reading some textbook, as Mark pulled at the thread of some project that he doesn’t recall much about now; Eduardo sat next to him on the couch as they’d watch some movie that Mark would make snide remarks about and Eduardo would just laugh like it was the most hilarious thing he heard; Eduardo waiting for him outside the ad board meeting after the whole FaceMash ordeal, tucking himself close to the pillar, head nodding to whatever music was playing inside his earphones. 

His mind replays them like a broken record that he can’t stop no matter how many projects that he puts in front of him. It’ll always come back to this—him and Eduardo. 

He wonders if it’ll be easier just to fall asleep. 

— 

Chris is worried about him. 

Mark can tell from the way that he’s visited his office more than usual. Dustin and Chris do come in from time to time just to check up on him or inform him about certain problems with Facebook. Last time they both came in, there was a bug in the system that took the whole site down. Other than that, however, they don’t really talk to him anymore. 

After the lawsuit, things changed. It’s not that they don’t like him anymore, just that there’s tension and unease that comes from having been on the war grounds between two people that you know as friends. 

Despite what everybody else says, Mark’s not a robot; he can tell these things. 

That’s how he can tell that Chris is worried about him. What with the hushed conversations to his assistant, eyes flickering over to Mark with this concerned look on his face when Chris thinks Mark isn’t watching. Mark knows much more than he lets on. Just because he’s wired in, it doesn’t mean he’s not paying attention. Well, sometimes he actually isn’t because Dustin says a lot of stupid things and Mark is less than not interested in hearing about them. 

Still, he should’ve been aware enough to see this coming with how surprised Chris was when Mark had spluttered awake in that car after Eduardo had shot him. Whatever expression was on his face at the time must have sold him out immediately; the sharp “I’m fine” that he’d spat out after Chris’ “you okay?” and refusing to sleep after that didn’t help either. 

He regrets all of that—falling asleep, replying, unable to hide the distress of being shot—even more on days Chris gets bold enough to actually go into Mark’s office, sit on his desk, and move his laptop away from him because his _friends_ have decided that the only way to get Mark’s full attention is to literally be in his way. Chris will slip him a “hey, are you alright?” or the “if you need to talk about anything, I’m here, you know” with this tender look on his face, always stopping just short of touching him.

When was the last time anybody touched him? 

Mark already knows the answer to that. 

“Mark” a voice calls out, gentle and awfully sweet, and he shoots up from where he’s buried himself in his arms. The laptop is still on in front of him; he’s been checking over the code to make sure there aren't any mistakes because he has time for that now, putting his heavy head down for a break as he scrolled through. 

Eduardo—of course it is—is sitting on his desk with a steaming mug in his hand. The distinct earthy smell of coffee wafts through the air, filling the entire room. 

“Wardo?” Mark asks, noticing how hoarse his voice comes out, and Eduardo smiles pleased like he once did back at Harvard when he was able to successfully pull Mark away from his work and this warmth swells within Mark, swirling through his whole body. 

He’s missed this, he realizes. He missed Eduardo. 

“I made this for you” Eduardo says, handing the cup over to Mark and Mark takes it. Their fingers brush against each other as he does, the contact burning ever so satisfyingly and Mark wants more of it. “You should drink it before it gets cold” 

So Mark does: ignoring the slight strange almond scent coming from it, savoring the bitter taste of it. 

There are fingers at the bottom of his cup, lightly tipping it over more and a hand, firm yet gentle, around his shoulder and it sends a thrill up his spine that he never wants to end. Not even when his hands begin to tremble, the cup slipping from his grasp and spilling all over his laptop. Not even when he vomits and coughs up blood, heaving while holding onto his stomach. Not even he collapses onto the ground, vision hazy and everything hurting, with Eduardo’s hand still curled around his shoulder.

Mark’s only regret is that in the end, he wakes up.

— 

After that Mark starts having a regular schedule, the type that his assistant and Chris would be proud of him for having. 

He works normal hours now, actually going home when it gets dark except for when there’s an emergency. He sleeps more too: dreamless mostly, but sometimes Eduardo’s there. Eating and hygiene is still particularly questionable, but he’s still alive and nobody comments on how much he stinks so he must be doing okay for himself. 

Even through all that, he still gets concerned looks and comments from Chris, Dustin now too, although. He doesn’t why. Mark has observed himself in the mirror long enough to see that he looks fine enough. Maybe, he’s more on the paler side or the skinner side or something. 

It doesn't matter. 

Facebook is doing fine, skyrocketing actually. Eduardo is still haunting him. 

He’s fine. 

—

Eduardo’s got him backed up against the kitchen counter: a hand cradling the back of Mark’s neck and a knife pushing further into Mark’s gut. Mark’s breath hitches as it does and Eduardo shush him softly, brushing his thumb carefully against Mark’s cheek.

They're so close that Mark can feel Eduardo’s breath against his face and it makes him think back to those drunken nights where they’d fall all over each other, back to that one night where they made out in Mark’s bed for the first and last time. Mark shakily wraps his hands around the back of Eduardo’s neck and closes the distance between them like he wished he did between then and now. It’s sweet and chaste and it feels _so real_.

The knife twists and Mark gasps in pain, a wave of dizziness washing over him now. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Eduardo says, whispers, with those kind, warm eyes. “You’re going to be okay” 

And Mark believes him.

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: choking, physical assault with a bat, shooting, poison, stabbing. no happy ending.
> 
> thank you for reading. please leave a comment and a kudos if you enjoyed uwu. also come talk to me on twt: @matchibuns


End file.
